


aliakmon

by ballantine



Series: noble consuls of rome [12]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Ancient Roman Religion & Lore, Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Interlude, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:02:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26934796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: In the shadow of the Canalovii, the great Aliakmon still bends out at the place where it once flowed freely into the Lydias to the northeast, before the latter wandered astray to join the black-dying Axius instead.
Series: noble consuls of rome [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730350
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	aliakmon

In the shadow of the Canalovii, the great Aliakmon still bends out at the place where it once flowed freely into the Lydias to the northeast, before the latter wandered astray to join the black-dyeing Axius instead.

Over the centuries, the Aliakmon has watered the region of Elimeia from which many of Alexander's finest officers came; it has served as a defensive line against northern invasions; it has accepted the bodies of men thrown by despair and madness; and in a couple millennia, it will birth research that forms the basis of an explanation for the movement of the ground beneath all our feet.

Presently, is it being used by nine women to wash the clothing of their village.

They start early, at dawn, for they hope to have the laundry washed and ready to dry by the time the sun attains its full power for the day. The morning fog lies thick over the meadow at their backs and licks cool against their work-warmed necks.

Across from the women, heron and pelican wade in the river, snapping at the rich bounty of fish that glide through the shallows. The water is of such a pure blue, it seems to possess depth unmatched even by the sky; one might stare into it all day and not find its end.

Such miracles of beauty abound on the shore of the Aliakmon, but the women cannot see it. They see only the work ahead of them.

As the sun rises above the forest treeline across the meadow, finally chasing away the remnants of the fog, the youngest maiden at the end of the washing line begins to hum a little: a thoughtless tune, but the feel of it filling her head brings comfort and distraction from the rawness in her fingers.

Gradually, the hum spreads down the line, each woman adding herself to it and harmonizing. When it reaches the last one, she straightens her aching back, tips her face up to the sun, and opens her mouth to sing out a single, perfectly clear note. Her voice might have been the light itself.

It calls to something in the others, and one-by-one without discussion, they drop their water-heavy burdens and step back from the muddy bank. They link hands, fingers tangling. Someone laughs in delight, for to a woman they find this touch, this slight connection, an unexpected joy.

Bright, lively music from an unseen harp descends on the river, a perfect accompaniment to the singing woman.

He emerges from the forest, coming to them across the meadow and twirling his thyrsus through his fingers.

(Asked later to describe him, the women would be unable to summon much detail, and what little they could, they did not agree upon. Five of the women said he was young; three insisted he was greatly mature in years, a seasoned figure. Two claimed _he_ was, in fact, a _she_. They all said he had a wildness to his manner, and a commanding fierceness to his eyes – but they never once felt scared of him.)

Stepping lightly, the women array themselves in a line on either side of him, five and four. He lifts his hands and they follow suit.

The group takes three graceful dancing steps to the left to the beat of an invisible drum.

He pauses to offer the tip of his thyrsus to the nearest maiden. A drop of honey trembles, suspended above her soft lips. Her mouth opens and the honey falls, the sweetness exploding on her tongue. She moans and arches her back, and her gauzy peplos pulls taut against her breast.

He smirks and snaps his fingers. The group spins as one and dances to the right.

“I'm sorry to interrupt... whatever this is,” says Janus, appearing off to the side, “but we need to talk.”

Dionysus glances over through the cavorting bodies and sighs. He tucks his thyrsus under one arm and two bottles of wine materialize in his hands the next second. He hands them off to the women and orders, “Drink and be merry. Go frolic.”

The two lines link to become one again, and the women spin away across the meadow in a bright twirl of white fabric and tossed dark hair. Dionysus looks after them a little wistfully. His fellow god, however, only has eyes for their abandoned work by the shore. The face that sees into the past studies the labor the women had already put in, the raw fingers and tired arms. The face that sees the future witnesses only the same ahead.

“Was all that necessary? They'll still have to finish their washing after,” says Janus.

“I can't help it,” says Dionysus. “There's something about laundry that I find so _very_ depressing. I can't see a mortal tend to it without wanting to free them. Poor things. Their lives are so short, and some of them spend a quarter of it scrubbing at wine stains.”

“And whose fault is that,” says Janus pointedly.

He clucks his tongue. “I gift them the wine, I do not tell them to be slobs with it. Now – what has caused you to seek me out on this lovely day?”

“Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger has left Rome.”

Dionysus watches two of the women, who have begun to passionately kiss. He claps and calls over, “Yes, good effort, good effort!” To Janus, he says, “Is that surprising? Their consular year ended over nineteen months ago.”

“I think he is making the wrong choice.”

“Ah, but he has _made_ a choice. I thought that sort of thing got you hard.” Dionysus waves a hand and two doors appear in the long grass. He places his hand on the knob of the first and looks back at Janus, conspiratorial. “What's behind Door Number One?” He throws the door open and through some bend of space-time, Janus finds himself abruptly looking out from the frame. “Why, it's Janus being a buzzkill!”

He dispels the door with an irritable wave. But Dionysus, unrepentant, moves to the next one.

“And behind Door Number Two... oh, also Janus. Imagine that.” Dionysus props himself in the frame, looking at his fellow god. He taps his chin contemplatively with his thyrsus. “What bothers you more, that he relinquished his power, or that he's intent upon reuniting with Antony?”

“So you already knew,” says Janus sharply.

Dionysus shrugs. “I assumed.”

“Well, _I_ assume the entire Mediterranean will now become embroiled in another tedious war because the man who should be directing Rome is too busy drinking and penetrating your little favorite.”

“ _Ha_ , attaboy!” Dionysus grins, but he catches the look on Janus's face and must roll his eyes. “Oh, what? I can't be a little happy for Antony? Wine, fucking, and now also war? Sounds like it's gonna be his year.”

“And do you know what happens to these maidens, when the continent is torn apart by quarreling Romans?” With his face that looks to the future, Janus nods to the women. “Three of them are dead within two years. Two are enslaved.”

Dionysus gazes at the laughing group, his expression perfectly untroubled. “All the more reason to give them wine and dance now.” His eyes slide over, knowing. “I think you're jealous.”

“Don't use that tone. I know perfectly well I am jealous. Look at them: they are happy one moment, in agony the next. They foist upon me responsibility for transitions, for beginnings and endings, but what do I really know of such things? We are unchanging.”

“Which is why I know it's no use asking you to cheer the fuck up,” said Dionysus. Two cups of wine appear in his hands, and he gives one to Janus. “Here. This is how we can pretend we are they. Snatch some happiness now, knowing we will suffer the hangover later.”

They are both well acquainted with the other's nature, and Janus knows he cannot refuse the libation. The face that sees the past drinks; the one that sees the future tuts over the headache. And Dionysus keeps his cup ever full.

Across the sun-drenched meadow, the doomed mortals dance on.


End file.
